


You don't see enough, you see too much

by FhimeChan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV First Person, Someone Help Will Graham, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, at least there's coffee, not the best morning ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 08:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18847624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FhimeChan/pseuds/FhimeChan
Summary: Will's encephalitis morphs reality into incomprehensible yet revealing shapes. Coffee is still needed.ORWill walks into the kitchen, half-asleep, and mistakes Hannibal for his roommate. Hannibal makes coffee.





	You don't see enough, you see too much

**Author's Note:**

> It wrote itself, but I kinda like it.
> 
> The complete prompt is:  
> 3) A walks into the kitchen, half-asleep, and mistakes B for his roommate. B knows the roommate and stayed overnight; makes breakfast for A.

My white shirt fizzles in and out of focus, an unplesant yet by now familiar sight after too many restless nights. I throw the garment on as I walk to the kitchen. What's the point of lying down in bed? I should just take another crappy job and work through the night, same amount of rest.

The tiles are blessedly cold under my feet. Would it be weird to lie down and press as much of my skin as possible against them? It'd be more difficult to get coffee though. But maybe Beverly would bring it to me, taking pity on the gross shivering mess on the floor of out flat. 

I can hear her steps approaching me from behind the door, so I suppose the time to lie down has passed. Somehow it's more difficult to let my legs fold under myself when Beverly is watching. 

I reach for the handle, I can almost feel the smooth metal under my sticky fingers when the door is taken from me. Am I falling or is the door actually moving this time?

I think it's the door because it opens to reveal a black human shape and because the black human shape feels solid when I bump against it in my quest for coffee. So it should be all real and physical. Sorta. 

The smell of coffee is stronger than usual. I don't remember buying that fancy brew and I don't remember buying the french press, but I must have because Beverly treats coffee like manna coming down from the sky. 

"Good morning," the antlered human says, taking the press from my shaking hands and pouring me a cup. Antlers? Really? Usually it's some bloody rotten tissue. I didn't know I had a penchant for wood imagery.

I burn my tongue on the brown liquid, but I keep drinking as I stare at the antlers ramifications. Intricate, dark against the white aseptic walls and fashinating, like those dotted images where with enough imaginations you can see anything from a mermaid to a car. In the antlers I see a bunch of screwdrivers. My mind telling me I should fix the kitchen cabinets? I think I should fix myself instead. 

The pain in my mouth overpowers my headache and I can just barely think. I mutter a grumbled "thank you" as the heat dries my dump imprints on the cup. 

The screwdrivers come closer, tilting sideway as something smells the skin of my neck. I expect a bite, but it doesn't come. I stare unblinkingly into red eyes. Calling the black shape Beverly seems weird, especially because it is wearing a black suit. As the coffee awakens me the blackness changes into some ridiculous gaudy pattern which threatens to give my headache a second chance. Hope it's unreal.

I flinch when something cold touches my forehead, displacing my soaked hair from the place destined to it by gravity. God, I'm gross. But the shape doesn't seem to mind, so I lean forward, chasing the coolness while holding onto the lingering heat of the cup. Both sensations are good. Dry, at least. 

"Your brain is on fire," it says. 

I chuckle, closing my eyes. 

"Always thought so."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
